


Convoy

by OutreOtter



Series: Congregation [3]
Category: Alien: Isolation (Video Game)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Multi, PTSD, Post-Canon Fix-It, Robot/Human Relationships, Slow Burn, Survivors Guilt, samuels survives AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-05-16 14:57:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14813565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OutreOtter/pseuds/OutreOtter
Summary: The darkness of Ripley and Samuels' refuge is starting to close in, and while one waits for the morning, the other springs to try and chase a light that might not exist.





	1. Chapter 1

“You're out of your mind. There's no way the perp could've just launched off the fifthteenth floor of the building,” Ripley gestured widely with a handful of wires, barely missing the side of the shuttle. Her small workspace situated across from Samuels’ makeshift laundryroom – the plastic tub filled with water, and a few wires tacked between the shuttle and bay walls, weighed down with damp clothes.

 

“Perhaps the matter with it all, is the lack of evidence the criminal was in the room to begin with,” suggested Samuels, quietly amused at how his companion picked up the fictional detective’s vernacular, seemingly without even realizing it.

 

“Unless the author is pulling that bull again with holding back facts,” she muttered darkly, tying the wire bundle into a loose square knot and setting it aside, diving deeper into the payment she had received for fixing diagnostic equipment for a doctor.

 

He suppressed another quiet wave of exasperation at the woman for accepting scrap to sell as payment instead of a checkup, and let it pass, knowing bringing up the point of contention would only invite conflict. Part of him entertained the idea of refusing repairs on himself until he had assurance of no damage lurking beneath her brittle facade of grim humor and steadfast focus. Moreso, he wished his own medical diagnostic tools and programs functioned, letting him gauge her well-being himself.

 

Such as it was – he only had access to memories of normal human behavior to rely on.

 

“I don't think the book could sustain another occurrence of that, seeing as the spine split last time you threw it,” he replied, wringing out the shirt he finished rinsing, readying to hang it out with the rest of the drying laundry in the bay – only to frown at the cloudy drips that came out, and plunge the garment back into the tub.

 

Ever since the break in regular shifts four days ago, she ate less than she should, slept less, drank less, even with his insistent reminders. All of it spoke of symptoms either psychological or pathological – neither would be surprising considering everything she withstood. The possibilities of everything that could be wrong droned in the background of his processor in a discordant chorus with his own feedback error loops. The worst part of it all was just how little he could do about it, except to grasp for small moments of normalcy like this.

 

“I taped it enough to take at least twenty more trips, it'll be fine,” she dismissed over the clatter of the incubator’s casing hitting the floor, checking her watch. “I'll cash this lot in once you're finished with the tub, and meet up with the heater job. How are you holding up? You know you don't have to do that.”

 

“As you've told me before. I much prefer this to simply sitting to the side and spectating,” he wrung out the shirt again, and paused in confusion as the water came out even less clear, “Though something of the rinsing process seems to be beyond me at the moment.”

 

“I can grab a fresh load of water,” she grunted as she got to her feet, stretching her arms over her head, “Did you go crazy with the solvent or...” she trailed off, her brow pinching as she studied the shirt, “Chris? Let me see your hands…”

 

Letting the garment sink back into the water, he wordlessly offered them up with a curious frown. She took one into her hand and after the slightest of brushes across his palm, muttered something unintelligible and darted inside the shuttle. Bewildered, he searched his hands for what could have triggered such a reaction, and froze at the sight of white trickling out of the wrinkles and crevices of his skin.

 

His sensors gave absolutely no indication of skin damage, even as he focused specifically on them. How much damage lurked elsewhere, without his knowledge?

 

“Please tell me this just started up now,” she dropped to her knees beside him, opening a first aid kit propped in her lap, “Because if you knowingly volunteered yourself for this while your skin’s falling _apart_ …”

 

“I’m not in the habit of bleeding into the laundry, or anything for that matter, despite your experiences with me thus far,” he replied, keeping his tone carefully neutral. Internally, he did his best to suppress the cascading errors cresting at the conflicting evidence of his damage, and the absolute lack of feedback from his neuroreceptors and his visual input.

 

“So it _is_ new,” she swiped at his hands with a damp rag, “Could it have been something in the solvent?”

 

“Doubtful, or our clothing is in danger of disintegrating.”

 

Carefully wrapping his joints and knuckles in bandages, she murmured, “From what I can tell, your self-repair is trying to compensate for whatever is going on, but it'll only work if you keep still. Wish I knew what exactly was happening… but your guess is probably better than mine. I'm sorry.”

 

Keeping his gaze on her face made it easy to just focus on the gentle touch of her fingers against his, and he took a moment to indulge in the sensation, “You've nothing to apologize for, Amanda.”

 

“Yeah…” she finished her patching job in contemplative silence, before leaning back onto her heels, fidgeting with the clasps of the first aid kit, “Guess I meant it in a more general way, that you're having to deal with this at all.”

 

“It's nothing unbearable.”

 

Not as long as it was with her.

 

“Regretting hunting me down yet?” her tone meant for jest, but the melancholy beneath slipped through, regardless.

 

“Of everything that's happened, finding you is the least regrettable. For all of that matter, what happened on Sevastopol would likely have taken place regardless, and I would've been destroyed, sooner or later. Instead, I’m here,” he smiled softly, “With the first friend I ever had. No, I cannot say I regret meeting you at all.”

 

She studied his face for a long moment, with bright eyes sunken into her face, before she huffed out a soft, humorless laugh, looking down, “You're right. It all would've happened anyway, wouldn't it? God,” she drew her arms around herself a bit, rubbing her bare biceps, brushing over faded bruises, “And there I'd be. Not knowing what happened to Mom the rest of my fucking life.”

 

Her gaze lifted again, locking onto his eyes, “‘Cept you gave a damn enough to come find me. Just like you give a damn enough about me now.”

 

“In that vein,” he ventured cautiously, “Might I suggest you eat something before your next appointment?”

 

Another quiet snort, laced with a bit of actual humor this time, “Walked into that one. Yeah – for you. I'll eat some noodles for you.”

 

Hoisting the tub up, she disappeared around the corner to the drain and tap. He stepped inside to put away the first aid kit, gingerly flexing his fingers around the bandages, before retrieving a container of instant noodles, and activating the heating unit inside.

 

“Hey, what part of ‘keeping still’ didn't penetrate your tin skull?”

 

“Beg pardon?”

 

“Don’t use your hands for a bit, they're not going to heal otherwise.”

 

“Surely for such minute tasks –”

 

“Christopher, I swear to God, I will duct tape you to the ceiling.”

 

“... I would rather you didn't.”

 

“Quit using your hands for a couple hours then,” she replied, filling the tub with the collection of separated scrap before joining him in the shuttle, plucking the heated soup from his grasp.

 

They both tensed at a set of raised voices just on the other side of the bay’s door, and Ripley reflexively reached for the shuttle door control, locking it down and checking her shotgun. Leaning casually against the pilot’s chair, she opened her meal, and blew off a small puff of steam, quietly staring out the cockpit window.

 

Unable to let go of his tension as easily, he carefully shifted his way down to the floor, “That’s the third altercation today.”

 

“Mhm…” she replied through a mouthful of noodles, “Truth to be told, this is kind of what I expected, boarding onto a Convoy. Was… really weirdly quiet and peaceful when we first got on, ‘til the Fest. Something must’ve gone down that night, that knocked the top gang off the hill. Haven’t heard any big stories yet.”

 

A shot of alarm raced through him at the loud slam against the bay door, launching him to his feet, his lagging stabilizers nearly sending him teetering to the floor. Her supporting arm caught his shoulder and guided him the rest of the way.

 

“Easy – it’s their brawl, not ours. If they wanted in, they’d be in by now. I’ve got an eye out.”

 

“Amanda, surely you don’t mean to go out amongst that.”

 

“I don’t. I’ll let them finish their discussion, and _then_ I’ll go out.”

 

“I doubt our doorstep is the only place these ‘discussions’ are taking place.”

 

“If it gets rough, I’ll buzz off to the nearest quiet spot, like I always do.”

 

“I don’t like it, Amanda.”

 

“I know, Chris,” she sighed, her hand curling gently on his shoulder, “I know. I can’t stay in here indefinitely. Have to eat and drink to live, have to work to eat and drink. And I’ve gotten really attached to running hot water. I’ll be okay,” she gave him a tired half-smile, “I’ll take turf brawls over paranoid and unhinged corporates any day. No offense to you.”

 

“None taken, as I'm neither of those.”

 

“Really? You ought to be. I sure as hell am,” the hand on his shoulder shifted, pressing lightly down, the other hand trading out noodles for shotgun as she crouched down with him at the opening of the bay door. They both huddled together as the continuing yells and shuffles crescendoed into a spray of red across the outside of cockpit window.

 

Ripley hissed a curse, gripping her shotgun in both hands. Samuels felt an actual shock of pain run through his spine from his processor at the overload of commands and protocols that all jostled for his attention in reaction. A clatter of boots and the fading hollering indicated the immediate end of the fight. He felt her fingers press lightly on his back to signal to him to stay out of sight, as she rose slowly beside him.

 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he heard her breathe out as she turned on her heel, and opened the shuttle door.

 

Cautiously, he crept to a stand himself, and caught sight of her approaching a body laying in a spreading pool of blood, throat slit wide open. She crouched down, and for a moment, he thought she placed her hands on the still figure to test for a pulse. She drew away, clutching a bloodied necklace in her fingers, her expression blank.

 

A dozen alerts rose at her face, among the constant buzz already filling his processor, about how she shouldn't even be out there with danger so close, about measures he should be taking to secure the crime scene for security forces that would never arrive, a feedback loop of failures to boot his medical protocols to save the already dead man… no – boy. The human couldn't be older than fifteen. He hadn't even realized he left the shuttle until her focus snapped to him at his approach, and she gestured furiously at him to get back inside, before following him.

 

“Don't come out, at all. I don't know what the hell that was about, but…” she folded the necklace into a rag, before pocketing it, “Goddamnit. The hell they have to kill him for? A fucking kid. Hell, they were probably kids, too,” her voice and hands both trembled, as she paced in tight circles around the cabin, rubbing the drying blood between her fingers.

 

He reached to touch her shoulder, to try to calm her, but she suddenly veered outside again, “Stay down, and lock this thing. I've got to deal with the body before it gets stiff.”

 

She’d gathered the limp form in her arms and disappeared before it even registered his speech protocols had shut down in an attempt to avoid a systems crash. Numbly, he reached to the control panel and closed the shuttle door, unsteadily crumpling to the floor. It wasn't until the cool steel wicked away the excess of heat built up inside him, that he could even begin to try slogging through the errors swamping his mind.

 

He dismissed the bulk of alerts from malfunctioning systems, failed protocol accesses – what didn't work, didn't work. It simply would have to be, for now.

 

Next came the orders for following Federal Marshal protocol for the witnessing of a murder, which he dismissed as well. No Marshal here. No point in their protocols.

 

Which brought him to the largest, and most tangled mess of errors and failures – Amanda Ripley. The running list of possible things that could be wrong with her now stood front and center of his processor, cross referencing to the incident, from the shell shocked look on her face, to the meal sitting cool on the control panel, three-quarters uneaten, until an unsettling revelation swept it all aside instantly.

 

That could have been her bleeding out on the floor of the shuttle bay.

 

It could still be, just anywhere else in this ship.

 

How could she place herself in such a dangerous position, how could she just accept living in these circumstances?

 

Because she has no other choice.

 

Because of _him_ , she has no other choice.

 

With nowhere else to go, to ensure he’s never discovered, places like this are her only option. At first, when it only seemed a bit crude, but livable, he could reluctantly accept it as a temporary situation. Yet – she said it herself – the mere lawlessness in a structurally questionable vessel, crawling with vermin of all sizes he'd see outside the shuttle windows, represented a brief respite of peace in what apparently amounted to a gang war.

 

This was intolerable.

 

He teetered back to his feet, bracing against the shout of sanitation alerts brought up from the ring of insects closed at the edges of the blood.

 

 _Absolutely intolerable_.

 

Reaching into the dysfunctioning hypersleep berth, he clutched at his folded pants and jacket. He needed to find… someone in charge, anyone in charge, explain to them who he and Ripley both were. First he'd find Ripley. He'd convince her to come with him. They'd go together, wind up back at Weyland-Yutani together, she would be safe, would retain a home, she'd be _safe._ He struggled into his jacket, and pulled the pants right over his shorts, completely ignoring the fact he now wore two layers of clothing.

 

Numbly pulling on socks and boots, he mentally repeated his mission to himself over, and over again. Find Ripley. Find someone in charge. Get back to Weyland-Yutani, where they both belonged. Find...

 

Find her.

 

He tottered his way unsteadily out the bay door, creeping around the various piles of junk and garbage in the alley. He staggered into the crowds flooding the dimly lit hallway, and let himself join the flow, surely in the same direction as she went.

 

He had to find her.


	2. Chapter 2

Ripley slid the door shut on the incinerator, leaning slowly against the wall under a wave of drained numbness, dragging the tips of her fingers together again, dried crumbs of blood rolling off in tiny strips. 

 

Breath one – a stranger. She disposed of the body of a stranger. No one she knew. 

 

Breath two – it had to be done. No mortuary available. No way to find the stranger’s family. 

 

Breath three – one last action to be taken care of, and she’d carry on. Like normal.

 

Closing her fist around the rag in her pocket, pulling it out, she picked it open and gazed at the plastic sleeve holding a gaming card of some kind, hanging off a bead chain, coated with blood. Just as well it remained red – if anyone cared enough to go looking for him, they had a right to know his fate. Wadding it back, she shoved herself unsteadily back to her feet, stubbornly ignoring the creeping nausea in her gut. 

 

Stopping at a passageway drain and tap, she made a quick scrub of her hands and arms to get the worst off. She’d give herself a more thorough wash at the bathhouse when she got there. After she’d met up with… with – hell. She’d ask Samuels, when she got back, after they reestablished that everything would go back to normal, and they would both hang on, for just a bit longer, long enough to get ahold of someone to repair him, just a little bit longer and they’d be  _ fine _ . 

 

Stalking out quickly, she made for the central hub, one of the few spaces that seemed to be more or less under some level of order, likely thanks to Foreman Dalia’s influence. Enough influence to keep the place still moving through space, still intact. 

 

In a way, she wished she knew at least one of her fellow engineers well enough to share Samuels’ state and struggles, to at least gain somewhere normal for them both to stay, somewhere away from the conflicting gangs battling for power of the Tako. Hell, maybe even somewhere that could take a look at the amounting damage shown on him. The nausea in her gut sharpened even more at the memory of his skin  _ coming apart _ . 

 

Just how badly did his damage range now? And what the hell could she do about it?

 

Nothing. Absolutely nothing, except find someone who would fix him instead of killing her, and finishing his deactivation to get money from Weyland-Yutani. And she hated it. 

 

Circling towards the center of the central hub, she cautiously bent her away around the dense, thick crowds, toward a fifty meter long chain link fence. Lanyards, photos, religious symbols, padlocks, keys, cards, dog tags, covered it all – thick, dense with abandoned revelations of the abandoned dead. Reaching up high, she hooked the ball chain from her pocket around one link, letting her limb drop as she stared at the small addition to an existing ocean of the deceased. So many passed away. So few even acknowledged. Her arms drew close around her chest, hands gripping her biceps tight, as the deaths creeping just at the edge of her memory came flooding over her. 

 

Fifty. Fifty lanyards in her backpack. Fifty lanyards she gathered in Sevastopol. 

 

Of the shot. 

Of the hunted.

Of the devoured.

Of the infested.

 

Her intention had been to honor them all. Even if it all she did was add them to a mass of the unacknowledged, hanging on a wall, confirming they were no longer alive. 

 

Yet now, as she stared at it, this wall did not feel like the right place for them, like the boy had. It wasn't where they belonged. She had no idea where that place was. But it wasn't here. 

 

She still had no ID of Taylor. No ID of Ricardo. No ID of Verlaine. No ID of Conner. No ID of anyone she'd struggled with or against at Sevastopol. Nothing to remember them by, to acknowledge them. Her throat burned as her nausea spiked hard again, and she turned to walk away as quickly as she could. 

 

And promptly rammed into Noro. 

 

“Woah!” her fellow teammate swung her arms back a bit, staggering to keep herself falling from the impact, before grinning crookedly at Ripley, running her fingers through her short, thick, black hair, “Damn, and here I was getting ready to surprise you. Haven't seen you since the Festival, where’ve you been?”

 

Ripley swallowed her discomfort, quickly drawing her default around herself tight, pressing her hands into her pant pockets, “Sorry. Didn't see you there. Was just on my way back to my place to continue work.”

 

“Work? Don't tell me you went and joined another group. Did we stink you out or something?” Noro asked half jokingly, not entirely blocking her path, but not necessarily standing out of the way either, “I'm ready to personally apologize, if that's the case. Or bribe you.”

 

“No. I'm still with you all, in the next week and a half,” Ripley deliberately rolled her shoulders back to a restrained but at least informal posture, “Just doing small jobs in the meantime, for extra cash. Could use all I can pick up.”

 

“Good deal. I'll just bribe you for a date then,” Noro winked casually at her, leaving Ripley unsure if that was a true offer, turning to the wall, “You hear ‘bout O’Malley? Found his dog tag on here yesterday.”

 

“Hell,” Ripley breathed, immediately turning her head in the same direction, her mind filled with their group’s now former leader, searching up and down for any memory that could explain his being killed off,  “No… no I hadn't heard about that. Do you know what's going on with the conflict?”

 

“Just that Zwarte Zon’s alliances went to hell in a handbasket the day after the Festival, like part of their leadership isn't playing along with the rest? Dalia’s doing all she can to keep the engineering on track but it's getting nasty. She's spending more time running Zwarte Zon than working on the projects right now. When you'd disappeared, I got a bit spooked you’d been killed too. Looks like you'll be running our group instead.”

 

“Me?” Ripley deadpanned. 

 

“Why the hell not. You're the most advanced of us. Best at improvising with scrap, too. I'd be amazed if you weren't made the leader, come next assignment.”

 

“Maybe…” Ripley replied, feeling the urge to ask her if she knew anyone who knew much about bioengineering, perhaps even asking to see how much space she had where she lived, before cold paranoia closed around her. 

 

Her mind crept with just how little she knew about Noro, outside of being a skilled structure engineer and designer, short, shapely, and holder of a sweet, charming grin. Hell, she could even be part of the rival gangs, and she was just looking for any signs of her belonging to any gang herself. 

 

“I'll go wherever we're assigned next. Long as we're kept busy, that's all I’m invested in. I… better move on back to work. Take care.”

 

“Oh – uh. That's… yes, I'll see you around?” Noro asked, a tiny bit of disappointment in her dark, almond shaped eyes. 

 

Ripley immediately felt a stab of regret at her conscience.

 

“Yeah. I’ll be back around. Promise,” she assured before fully realizing what she was saying. 

 

“Back around it is,” Noro smirked a bit as she waved a casual goodbye, before disappearing into the crowd. 

 

Letting out a shaky breath that she'd apparently been holding in, Ripley started her hike back to Arm 2. Zwarte Zon. The name hardly came off unfamiliar, but she'd yet to invest any amount of speculation or thought on the leading gang or, for that matter, how Dalia stood as at least one of the leaders. For how smoothly they kept their hand on the place, it nearly felt like she worked for a corporation, instead of a somewhat organized group of skilled people keeping a creeping ship in one piece. 

 

Would the organization come apart if Zwarte Zon came to pieces? Sooner or later, the arguments would have to give way to survival. And not a single one of the engineers here would tolerate some arrogant fool holding a gun to them and demanding obedience. Even the friendly ones, like Noro, would have them down the incinerator, or flying off into open space before they even knew what hit them. And she’d be more than happy to help with the tossing. Even so, she would prefer their current running hands to keep their grip, resolidify it even. 

 

The arm that held the shuttle had gone unsettlingly quiet. Loud vendors withdrew into their shops and closed the doors, various residents working on various projects hunkered inside their shelters, not even the strolling pickpockets and thieves were anywhere to be found. Pressing herself close to the wall with her hand firmly closed around her revolver, Ripley strided as quickly as she could back to their bay, eager to get behind the walls where everyone else was, to let whatever was about to pass… pass. 

 

The relief she felt as the door slid shut behind her immediately dissolved at the pool of blood right inside, thick with the crawling collection of insects, and the nausea she thought she'd finally dropped came charging back instantly. 

 

_ Hell _ . 

 

At least Samuels listened to her and stayed inside the shuttle. Small miracles, small, welcome miracles. 

 

Ducking inside would wait. At least until the worst of this got washed off. The last thing she wanted was an infestation in their shuttle. More than enough horrendous memories of opening food to an outpouring of crawling, nasty insects, or awaking to a wide variety of creeps on top of her, sometimes chewing on a part of her, or smashing a nest that sat just inside a console she had to repair, lay in her mind to solidify the case. 

 

Dumping out the scrap from the tub, she felt a bit of tension ease at the sound of things returning to normal outside once more, glad to know her retrieval of the water could be done relatively in peace. 

 

As she sloshed a great wave over the mess and bugs, all too glad to watch them go flailing into the drains, weariness dragging at her spirit tempted her to contact her next quick job and to tell them to expect her tomorrow instead. Knowing how empty the streets were a few minutes ago, the likelihood of him being behind on everything too had to be strong. For all she knew, the delay at this point was far too great for her to even show up today. Another part of her mind practically barked at her to immediately get into touch with him and to apologize for her running slow, and to inform him of her prompt arrival. 

 

Scrubbing quick and hard at the dried blood on the cockpit widow, then on the floor, she thought of Samuels’ expression as he’d come out to the scene of the killing that had just taken place. Concerned, conflicted, reaching for her of all things – he behaved as though she’d been the one attacked, as if she should be the one to be worried about. What on earth could he see in her that gave the impression she needed support? 

 

Or perhaps she’d misinterpreted it as that – perhaps he could use some emotional support right about now himself. She’d been gone so much, and he could’ve been exposed to far more solitude than he found comfortable. Again, another assumption. They needed to have a sit and talk, to come to a true full understanding. 

 

And were she to be truly, wholly honest – something downright natural, comforting, and…  _ right _ laid in time spent with him. His gentleness, his honesty, his straightforward way of thinking, all made his companionship some of the best she’d experienced her entire life. Usually initial impressions like this eventually peeled away as mere politeness, yet for all the time they’ve spent together, this only seemed to prove absolutely true to his personality. And it only made her want to invest even more in this tiny island of stability, and to keep it from getting washed away. 

 

Even if the eventual repair and clearing of his processor eliminated his physical affection. The sweet, warm, solid physical affection he shared with her every time she went to sleep, and wrapped a tender arm around her shoulder as she let her inner weariness show. As much as she would miss that, it was nothing compared to the value of his friendship, and what he’d done in the name of that friendship. 

 

One last dump of water over the messy area, and a drop of the tub atop the drain grate to encourage any vermin trying to return to go elsewhere, she slogged her way back into the shuttle. 

 

“Hey, Chris. I’m back,” she groaned a bit more tiredly than she fully intended, “Outside’s cleaned up too, so we don’t have to worry about it,” she strode to the console to bring up their messages, “How you holding up?” 

 

She waited as she tabbed through for a few seconds, and felt her chest tighten at the silence.

 

“Chris?” 

 

Absolute silence. 

 

“ _ Samuels _ ?” she slung her head down into the usual area he secreted himself away, and felt her breath leave her. 

 

Gone. He was  _ gone _ .


	3. Chapter 3

“Please lower your weapons. Whatever the conflict here, there is absolutely no reason for this to be resolved with violence.”

 

Samuels couldn’t pinpoint the exact reason he stood where he did.

 

Flashes of memory on Sevastopol shied through the fog of his processor, of hearing Ripley’s voice urging over the radio for all of them to board the trolley ahead of her. Of Ricardo snapping at Waits as he opened the door to the Marshal’s office for panicked, desperate denizens seeking shelter.

 

“You had _no_ idea what those people were up to, Ricardo. _No idea at all_! For all the hell you knew, they could’ve blazed in here and shot us all down on the damn spot, and you disobeyed my orders!”

 

“Your orders don’t outrank what our duty is – to protect our citizens, in _every_ way we can.”

 

“Citizenship doesn’t change the risk they represent now, and you best remember the luck you had right there, and the luck you have right now that I don’t _strip your badge_.”

 

“If the world is full o’ risks, then it’s up t’ _us_ to fill it with the protection _against them_!” the stubborn will running beneath the anger in Ricardo’s voice echoed to something in Samuels, planting something in his processor. Or perhaps it gave something already there the flash of light it needed to sprout.

 

And that something fed into the pride he felt, at each blow he landed on an APOLLO controlled drone. It powered him on, as he willfully marched to what he knew would surely end him, even as Ripley implored him to stop. Pride. Pride described what it felt like, to have it in his power to, if nothing else, end that nightmare, and to see that she would find closure, _freedom_.

 

That pride never faded, in spite of all that happened.

 

And it sang loudly now, in this battered, unlawful disaster of a society on Tako, as somehow, his extended, upheld palm _stopped_ the advancing pair armed with pistols descending on the solitary teenager huddled behind him against the wall.

 

“ _Lower your weapons_ . Whatever the conflict here, it can be resolved _without_ violence,” he repeated the scripted order firmly once more, not moving his straightforward gaze even slightly.

 

_Eighteen to twenty at the most – old enough to be charged as adults._

 

And what system existed here to charge them? Silencing the legal standardization with the curt dismissal, he forced his strained processors to focus directly on the actions around him, and be prepared for any counteraction he might need to take. A snarl curled one of the pair’s lips, before she strode backward, jerking her head to her companion to do the same.

 

“Y’all got fuckin’ _balls_ steppin’ in like this. Fuckers can kiss us bye, too. Let’s go, Trey. Boss gonna shit when he hear ‘bout this.”

 

A brief scrambling for reason engulfed his processor as he watched both stalk away, before catching the Weyland-Yutani patch on his jacket out of the corner of his vision. Of course. They must think he’s acting on Company behalf.

 

Just as well. If he could continue on with the facade, his chances of getting Ripley back to safety stood that much higher. A set of objecting errors flagged his reasoning, mostly pointing to the inferred alliance break, but he immediately dismissed it all as he crouched to the still shivering and blinking teenager clutching his bleeding leg.

 

Finding logic in this place could wait. The health and safety of a human, a minor at that, absolutely could not.

 

“My name is Samuels. I see that your leg has been injured, and you're in need of medical attention. Is there a facility nearby?”

 

A few pained breaths preceded the boy’s reply, “Facility? Mean like a doc? Man you _are_ a weirdo. Who you with, anyway?”

 

“I’m,” he nearly felt the script roll naturally from his vocalizer, before an override he couldn't identify at the moment choked it off, “...actually looking for the one I'm with right now, whom I wish to ask you about. But your wound comes first. Where can we go to see about your getting treatment?”

 

The question earned him a long, skeptical stare before the teen finally responded.

 

“Uhh… nowhere I can afford. Guess there's bandages back at the meeting place. Not like there's a bullet in me, just caught the skin,” he dismissed, pulling out a rag from his pocket, smeared with the dark red of fresh blood, and a blade clattered to the floor. Snatching it back up, he quickly swathed it in the bloody rag, glancing challengingly at Samuels before yanking out a black stained rag from another pocket, fastening it quickly around the gash on his bare calf, “So uh. See you ‘round.”

 

“I can accompany you to ensure you get where you need to.”

 

“No, I'm fi-” the teen’s objection broke off to a sharp grunt as he tried to put weight on the injured leg, and swiftly thumped against the wall, “Fuck! _Okay…_ okay.”

 

Samuels extended his arm to him to lean on and find his balance, before bending enough to support his weight. A slight fuzz of static bleared the edges of his vision for a second before it snapped back into clarity. Stubbornly holding back the errors and system alerts to the low ranking he'd reset them to, he kept his focus where it needed to be.

 

There could even be the possibility of this boy having seen Ripley at some point.

 

Holding onto the arm draped over his shoulders, he led the way out to the slowly reawakening passageway that had instantaneously emptied at the sound of bullets firing down the way. He'd also ducked aside to avoid the shots, though not taking his eyes off the scene for an instant, lest the confrontation somehow involve Ripley. However, upon seeing the two armed threats descending on the solitary minor, that pride, still residing in his processor, launched him immediately to interrupt what, by the furious declaration the boy was to ‘ _pay for what you did_ ’, looked like an execution.

 

Tangles of promotions, signage all written in hundreds of different languages, interwoven with tacked on electric cord, dangerously bare, covered the walls, smearing their surface into a blearing mixture of vision and information, broken by doorways covered most commonly by cloth.

 

He found it all overwhelming, confusing, difficult to focus on.

 

As they left the area most clogged with the shouts and calls of vendors, much to Samuels’ relief, he glanced at the teenager, who bit his lip, still breathing hard, “Do you need to rest… I'm afraid I do not know your name.”

 

“No time. It’s right here anyway, but I don’t wanna be outside. They're gonna be back, with more I bet.”

 

“Well _look_ who came crawling back alive.”

 

The sneer echoed out from an overhang, constructed of the back end of a wrecked ship, rusted and covered in painted markings. Leaning out at the raw opening, a smirking man clad in filthy and torn coveralls, a half crushed cigarette smoldering between his fingers gazed down at them with the air of a master of an estate.

 

“Yeah that’s right I did,” the boy yelled right back, not letting any of the grunting pain slip into the crowing call, “Think you lost me forever, gonna cry?”

 

“Damn good thing you did. Fuckin’ still owe me fifty-two. Get’ch’r ass up here,” the man barked, stepping away from the opening.

 

Samuels caught sight of the slight wince in the boy’s face, and the obvious discomfort that darted across it, further fueling his doubts about the wisdom of this place. Before he could ask whether this was a good destination, his companion gestured shortly to the bare, industrial stairway. Feeling no more confident, but determined to ask after Ripley, he followed the direction, acting as a crutch as the boy clutched to the handrail. Loud, static laced music echoed out from the top of the stairway. A dingy couch, draped with two lounging figures, plus a small table with a group of card players whose occupants all greeted them with dull, narrow stares. It took all Samuels had to repress each air quality alert that sprung up at the thick haze in the room.

 

The man who greeted them upon their approach leaned against a door jamb into the dim room that contained the overhang gestured to Samuels, “Who the hell’s this?” the suspicious inquiry barely registered over the blaring boombox seated in the corner.

 

The teenager wrenched his way out from his support with a jerk, standing unsteady for moment, covering it with a casual gesture towards him, “A guy who came up n’ distracted a bunch of stupid bitches who thought they could take me. Kicked their fuckin’ asses an’ -”

 

A thread of impatience and the urgency swelling in him cut away any of Samuels’ usual tolerance for standing by passively while falsifications were spouted, “I accompanied him to ensure he could get his wound seen to – and to inquire after someone I'm looking for. Have any of you recently encountered someone by the name of Ripley?”

 

Not a single one of the other denizens spoke up, in spite of their retained stares, as the man slowly shook his head, “Never heard of ‘em. You looking for your dealer, I got all the right stuff – noke, fatey, five blaze, ten blaze,” diving his free hand into a pocket, he sauntered to the boy, slapping him in the chest with a small plastic bag full of white powder.

 

Clutching the bag tight in his fist, the teenager limped to the couch and tore into it with the eagerness of someone who hadn’t eaten in days getting their first meal.

 

“Seventy-eight you owe now,” the man drawled before turning deeply bloodshot eyes back to Samuels with a smirk, “And my prices? Can't get better.”

 

Dealers, and addicts. Ripley mentioned them on their journey to this vessel. Desperately sifting through the thickening haze of errors, he couldn’t find any protocol on how to interact with them, outside of reporting their location immediately to the Marshals. Instead, he clutched to the only thing that stayed first and foremost in his processor.

 

“She’s 180 centimeters tall, close cropped dark auburn hair, green eyes, fre-eck-eck-eck-eckles on white skin, surely someone of that description has come by here at some poi-oi-oi-nt.”

 

Samuels coughed to hide the clicking reset of his vocalizer, in hopes of ending the glitches, but his wary focus already told him he might as well have powered down a lift after it crashed through the door. The lazy smirk had slipped off the man’s face, his slouch straightened up into alertness, the first thing even vaguely resembling focus glinting in his eyes.

 

“Holy shit. An android. It’s a goddamn android.”

 

The cigarette dropped from his fingers and crumpled beneath his boot as he stepped forward.

 

“And a Weyland-Yutani model. Shut and lock the goddamn door, Brandon,” he reached behind him, producing a sawed off shotgun, leveling it at Samuels’ throat, “Time to collect the best goddamn salvage we seen in our lives.”

 

A thousand doubts that he had no idea he held against Ripley’s judgement, dismissing it as trauma from Sevastopol, evaporated in an instant. He truly did stand as a tower of potential wealth here, separated only by whose hands were on him. Hands that intended on separating him from the one and only person in his existence who regarded him as anything but.

 

The shotgun crashed into the wall from where it had been struck out of the dealer’s hand, now clutched in his other as he howled in pain through clenched teeth.

 

A hailstorm of errors and alerts assaulted his processor.

 

He struck a human.

 

He struck and injured a human.

 

His entire system swelled up to the precipice of a crash, before it was yanked back out into reality by the screech of another man’s voice, reeling back from him, flailing his hands frantically.

 

“It burned me, _the piece of shit burned me_!”

 

_Don’t you realize how fucking overheated you are?!_

 

He frantically raced through the doorway for the overhang, and launched himself off, slamming to the ground three stories below in a crouch. Straightening up, he ripped at the Weyland-Yutani jacket, throwing it on the ground. Shining, fresh smears of white coated it, and his gaze snapped to his the bandages wrapped around his fingers, soaked and dripping.

 

A set of distant yells reached through the haze of realizations, and he saw another group charging towards him from the main walkway, gesturing over their shoulders and calling to what had to be reinforcements, and he did the only thing that could come to him. Darting to the next precipice he could identify, a level downward, he made another leap with all the strength he could muster, landing atop a corrugated metal roof that buckled underneath his weight.

 

He stared at the hole above him where he landed in the pile of laundry, pondering idly why it kept shrinking, as static laced darkness slowly closed around him.

 

The circle of silhouettes staring down at him were the last thing he could make out before his vision went offline completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY THERE. 
> 
> Sorry for the vanishing there. It was not my plan or idea, but I apologize nonetheless. I intend to keep on with this, and see it thru to its end.
> 
> As always, thank you ten thousand times over to mi amica Fransoun for beta-ing this!


	4. Chapter 4

“God  _ damn it!” _

 

Ripley slammed her fist on the pilot chair armrest, before leaning back and rubbing her temples as she tried to keep her spiraling nerves under control. The access denial blinked at her on the screen in cheery mockery. 

 

IGAR connected hubs almost never had security measures that couldn't be just danced around. Yet the dock and departure log laid behind a blanket of encryption that would need a processor ten times more powerful than what she had to work with, and at least twelve hours. And that assumed the probe wasn't detected and shut off, the sensitivity for which surely had to be here, if the Company level of security measures were anything to go by. 

 

She needed to access that dock and departure log. The fact her weaponry remained untouched, the shuttle locked, gave all indication that he'd gone out himself. 

 

And if Samuels could stand amongst the other riders of this Convoy for longer than ten minutes without getting downed and snatched up for sale, she was a damn unicorn.

 

The only way of detecting who got ahold of him laid entirely in looking at who recently put in a change from their original departure coordinates to just long enough to pack up and ready their transport. With any luck, she'd find them first, with a loaded revolver and shotgun. If not, she'd follow them right across the galaxy. 

 

And  _ then _ meet them with a loaded revolver and shotgun. 

 

The only other option laid in actually breaking into the control room, and directly viewing the logs there.

 

So be it.

 

Corps couldn’t stop her from getting to what she wanted. Nor could AIs. Nor could deadly bioorganisms. 

 

_ They stopped you. Every single one of them crushed you, and you just barely crept away with your life. _

 

Ripley shoved the thoughts to the side with a mental sketch of the control center. A Convoy gang sure as hell wasn’t going to stand in her way. She’d get him back. She’d make damned sure he’d never fall into fate’s hands again. She wouldn’t fail. She wouldn’t do too little, too late this time, she wouldn’t lose him again,  _ she wouldn’t fail _ . 

 

Slinging her bag over her head, the same demon who nightly whispered all the wrongdoing that made her mother leave, sang out obnoxiously of how clearly sick of her shit he had to be to take off like that. She furiously crammed the chorus of self-damnation into its designated compartment, with nothing else but the sheer fact that logic stood a better chance at saving him, and disgust didn't apply logically to  _ why _ he left.  _ Why now _ , when this place stood more dangerous than ever before. 

 

Rotating the revolver cylinder with hands kept steady with grim determination, she considered an error causing him to want to report the boy's death. Unlikely. He knew where he was, what the risk of stepping out implied. It'd take a complete wipe for him to do that, yet conveniently retain that a killing had taken place. No way.

 

Checking that the shotgun stood loaded, she reconsidered the possibility of an overall wipe – a surge from damage that finally overtook his entire processor, defaulting him and sending him out to seek MUTHUR. The idea of losing him completely turned her cold from the inside out, leaving her clutching to the determination his memory could still be recovered if that happened. 

 

Locking the shuttle behind her felt like securing an empty safe.

 

Her mind returned to the look on his face as he'd been approaching her outside the shuttle. Distressed. Anxious. Concerned. Reaching out to her after she herded him back inside, as if seeking something.

 

A belt cinched around her lungs – her. 

 

What if he went out looking for her? She'd been so wound up in dealing with keeping everything under control, she didn't even consider the idea he'd come after her. The more she thought of how much he'd been hovering, clucking at her like a mother hen ever since that spook with a malfunctioning lift, and how blatantly he ignored his own state, the more sense it made.

 

Surely it had to be obvious she wouldn't be gone long. Then again, what was ‘long’ to someone whose entire concept of time is screwed? The demon slithered gleefully out of its holding right to her ear. 

 

_ Should've told him when to expect you back, should've paid more attention, should- _

 

A deafening roll of collapsing metal drowned it into silence, snapping her attention to a row of shelters further down the way summoning memories, the thunder of elevators dropping down their shafts beneath her feet, the screeches of trams on fire flying inches from her head – she grit her teeth and forced herself back into the here and now. 

 

A crashing through a roof, something fell through a roof, that’s all that happened. 

 

She stared warily at the troupe of people jogging to the crash site, all sporting a silken bandana around their head or neck. Zwarte Zon, so it had to be something gang dispute related. Not important, not her business. And if fortune chose to shine on her once, just once, it meant a conflict that'd leave the control center down to a bare bones crew. 

 

She strode in the direction the small crowd had come from, considering her approach. Still too new to walk into the place, acting as though she were there to handle maintenance. No deeper vent access. She might find a component of the operations on the outside that'd give her a chance to reach the log via access tuner, but the search alone would take hours of not being spotted in the act, unless she got  _ damn _ lucky. The systems failure alarm would be easy enough to replicate, and combined with a smoke bomb, it'd quickly summon the crew to see what just fried itself, and how quickly they needed to root it to keep the whole place from going up. God knows it happens enough on Convoys. The clunk of the package getting chucked under the console would just reinforce the idea that something actually broke in there. Plenty of distraction, plenty of time to get in and get out.

 

_ And what happens when you fail? _

 

_ When there’ll be no log? When you don’t get there in time? When you don’t extrapolate their destination?  _

 

Ripley never really liked being around people for long periods of time. Sure, there laid a certain comfort in hearing thoughts like hers being shared by others, reassurance of her sound reasoning. Passing minutes could definitely be entertaining enough. In precious, rare moments, she could believe a little in the idea that others actually enjoyed her company. Yet, no matter how much she enjoyed herself in those moments, it never took away what her first and foremost priority. 

 

Be ready. 

 

Be ready, to pick up the little hints that would finally reveal the real reason they’re talking to her. Be ready, to figure out what had to be done to prevent getting what she needed yanked out from under her. Be ready, to dodge or block a strike. 

 

Time spent in Corporate society managed to quiet the last one into near silence, before Sevastopol launched it back into a near constant siren. 

 

Being around people represented a constant, unending threat. Getting to be alone, truly alone, represented a blessed relief, relaxation. Safety. 

 

And then she felt that safety around Samuels.

 

Something in the combination of his genuine intentions, his absolute acceptance of her, and how much all of what he does goes blatantly and obviously against what he was ‘built’ to be, made every defensive wall she built evaporate into nothingness. It made not the slightest bit of sense, as she still deeply feared a piece of her being revealed to him that he’d finally reject, realize his mistake in befriending her, and didn’t dare spend a minute pondering on it. 

 

It didn’t make the loss, or even the idea of it, any less painfully sharp. 

 

She never, ever wanted to fall short to saving him again. The debt of what she owed to him echoed from the very depths of her heart, yet – it stepped beyond her sense of honor, years of learning to  _ never _ let a debt stand. No, even if it had been the exact opposite of who owed what, the very idea of losing him tore at her. 

 

_ She wouldn’t fail _ .

 

Parking herself atop a crate in an alley far enough from the control center to eliminate any chances of suspicion for the alarm chirps, she dove into her bag. Retrieving the leftover noisemaker from Sevastopol, tweaking the frequency the thing would shriek, she slightly tuned out the muffled conflict sounding off on the other side of the wall across from her. It wasn't until the echoing bang of a firearm jerked her into alert, throwing everything back in the bag and looking to quickly evacuate from the area. 

 

A door slammed open into the dim alley, bright light pouring out from the inside, a flood of gun wielding, shouting ruffians answering a wall of following guns and knives. Then her gaze froze on one figure in the mass flowing out, and felt her entire lower half turn to concrete. 

 

His profile stood out clear against the light spilling out of the doorway, his posture tense against the gun held to his neck, jostled slightly by the quarrelling groups shouting back and forth, like snapping dogs over a piece of meat. She could see the flash of white bandage around his neck, could see the sway of his balance (hydraulic). 

 

So close. So close, behind a wall of armed, aggressive people, yet so close to her, she could  _ almost _ get to him and pull him back to her, just a meter outside of arm’s reach. 

 

The altercation tripped into a lull, the two groups jerkily backing off from each other, watching one another’s arms, the entire passageway silent for a breath, held with the same tension of a vase teetering at the edge of the table. 

 

The idea barely had time to form in her head before it lit her nerves into action. Veins blazing with reckless fire, she cocked her revolver, ducked down, and fired a shot into a stack of collapsed crates. 

 

The hallway instantly exploded into crossfire. 

 

Tearing her way forward, she cracked the skull of his distracted captor with a vicious pistol whip, gripped the familiar synthetic texture of a wrist, and  _ ran _ .

 

She didn't dare look back. She knew they would be chased, and their best chance of getting away lay in running, through every curtained kitchen, around each corner, down every back alley, putting as many obstacles as possible between them, and their pursuers. He effortlessly followed her leading grip, the clatter of their feet the only noise either of them made until they reached their shuttle bay door.

 

“Go.  _ Go _ !” she hissed, ushering him through ahead of her, taking one last sweeping glance outside, pushing lightly at his back in the dim light, “Get to the shuttle, now!”

 

Panting hard as she punched the lock in, voice hoarse and shaking from the adrenaline and rage boiling to the surface in absence of immediate danger, she snarled, “ _Goddamnit_ _Chris_ , _what the hell!?_ I fucking _told_ you to stay in here, I _told_ you it was dangero-” she whipped to face him and the words died in her throat. 

He stood with his back to her, in the bright glare of the shuttle lights, the back of his head glossy, immaculate, without a single singed hair. The white around his neck was no bandage, but a fringed silk scarf, bright against a dark crimson jacket. Not even a slight mote of damage showed anywhere on him.

 

“I'm afraid I'm at a loss as to who this ‘Chris’ is,” spoke a familiar voice – sickeningly, hair-raisingly familiar – smoothly accented with the same, polished cadence, but utterly devoid of the gentle warmth she knew. 

 

Her revolver raised halfway before in a blur of motion, it flew from her struck hand, rattling into the cockpit. Her teeth clattered together as she was pinned against the wall by one hand crushed around the collar of her jacket, the steel of a wickedly long knife against her throat in the other.

  
“For all that matter,” Cold, distant, coffee brown eyes stared at her from a face she’d long memorized –  _ his _ face, but  _ not _ him, “I don't believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that other Samuels that got lost in Zeta Reticula? :)
> 
> Fransoun mi amica is goddamm hero for betaing this.


End file.
